Procrastination
by SkeletonTree
Summary: The thoughts of Sirius Black in Azkaban.
1. Brother

_I do not own Harry Potter or any of it's characters._

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Part 1 - Brother

I had never thought about settling down and raising a family. I considered myself too young for that and I certainly didn't want a child that could easily be born with delusions of pureblood mania. The spitting image of my parents. I, Sirius Black, was living proof that despite blood and oppressive domestic politics, you could always turn out differently.

The first few years of life at Hogwarts were spent in superior bliss of everyone lower than me. Although I was placed in Gryffindor, which was a bigger shock to me than anyone else, it was difficult to let go of the Black pride. I attached myself to James that way, he was safer to be friends with because he was a pureblood, and in years past became more of a brother to me than Regulus was.

Little Regulus Black, I think about all the things that could've been different between us. Each incident that led up to my leaving runs over in my mind, repeating all the times I had wronged him or made him feel inferior. I regretted that when he stepped into my shoes and became the sole male heir of the noble and most ancient house of Black. The underlying competitive streak he had, he got that from our charming Mother and although he was introvert, and I never saw him in a hateful way, our estrangement will always singe my heart. He was my way out; I felt less guilt about leaving because my parents would have Regulus. Good, obedient Regulus to take over and save the family's honour. What a fine young man he turned out to be; a loyal servant of Lord Voldemort; purifying the wizarding world, one mudblood at a time.

I can hear Bellatrix, from what I glimpsed when she was dragged up to this level, she was only a few cells away from me. Bit of a lapse in security there, if you ask me. Putting Black and Black so close together. They had separated her from that disgustingly cold brute of a husband at least. But Bellatrix doesn't need encouragement, she's a deranged fanatic on her own accord. I ignore her most of the time, but I can still hear her whispering things in the dark. Her pale face pressed against the iron bars of her cell, taunting me.

_"He turned out every bit of disappointment as you, blood traitor." _

She tells me he is missing in action, probably dead. The Dark Lord had sent him on an 'impossible' mission, only to secure his 'accidental' death to his parents. Regulus was faltering in his faith to the Dark Lord and was beginning to withdraw his loyalties. My cousin revelled in repeating this information again and again with ecstatic spite.

It's just another thing that plagues me, the wrongs and rights of my brother. The familiar genetic anger flares in me when I think back to his insufferably smug face in my last year of school. He was everything my parents wanted in an heir and they had groomed him well in my absence. It was as if I didn't exist and Regulus had been the only son of Orion and Walburga Black. He was cold to me, I didn't really blame him. I had left him in that gloom alone, to suffer our parents alone. I knew he always wanted to please them and didn't want to stand against them in anything that would make his life difficult. He did everything they told him to; he was just a puppet and he was completely proud of it.

Bellatrix's story plays over in my mind, I should be comforted by the thought of Regulus seeing sense and rebelling against Voldemort. I like to believe he has that kind of strength. I am without hope of his life though, without hope for mine as well. I am kept alive by the truth that I am innocent, but I would rather be dead than to obsess over my brother's life so helplessly.

It's ironic, in the end that I should be publicly recognised as the famous Death Eater, the loyal and closest servant of Him. I overshadow, like older brothers do whilst Regulus Black goes down in history entirely unremarkable. I am almost apologetic for taking his life's glory, but I am wholly bitter.**  
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	2. Lover

_I do not own Harry Potter or any of it's characters._

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_Part 2 - Lover

It's nearly nightfall; I watched it rise since the afternoon. At least what I believed to be the afternoon. My perception of time is now calculated on the moon-cycle. Which is funny, we used to tell time by the moon at school, I wonder if you ever remember that.

This is the third month, the third moon I've watched break through the gloom of the permanently violent storm. It's mocking me, that fucking thing. I'm consumed with regret; how could I not trust you? I had been so blind and ignorant to the unsuspecting cockroach, who twisted things we both said and drove a wedge between us. I regret not trusting you; I regret pissing about all those years and never actually telling you that I loved you. I mostly regret not being there tonight, or the last moon, or the one before that and the one before that and the one before that and the... Sanity is thin like oxygen here.

I can't remember the last time I saw you, maybe because it was so brief it's fallen out of my mind. Maybe it's because I choose not to remember it, I was probably being a git again, wasn't I? Lording over you as I always did. It used to be comfortable, but then it changed to tension so quickly and our fights got longer. You didn't forgive me so easily then, you probably never will now. I like to think that you believe in my innocence; but I pushed you too far back for comfort and broke the trust between us. My behaviour was doubtful and I was vague, why would you trust me now?

Is it lonely without us to guide you? Are you out there, howling for Padfoot or Prongs? What are you doing with your life now that your life has been taken from you? I didn't imagine this for any of us when setting off dung bombs in the prefect's bathroom, so utterly ignorant to the world. I would've never guessed you to be the one left behind. The guilt is unbearable if it makes you feel better.

'Sorry' seems such a trivial word. So much I am not sorry for and so much I am. I know I am wrongly convicted but I am not wholly innocent. I am not whole, merely half, or a quarter… I can't breathe. I was never suited for being locked up, I'm completely unable to take such a small space. I'm watching the moon; it's just visible through the pathetic crack of a window. I wonder how many more moons I will see before I just give up my soul.

I will probably waste away in here and never lay eyes on you again. It's probably for the best though, I am a terrible influence.


End file.
